Blind Baker revisited
by EtherDoc
Summary: What if Sherlock had been the one kidnapped and John had to figure out where his flatmate and his date were being held?


John sat nestled between Sherlock, who was sulking in a dark corner of the cab, and Sarah, who shot him quick glances and small smiles when he looked at her. He wrapped his arm around her and she laughed quietly. Her hair smelled like lavender and he let his fingers run lightly through it. John felt Sherlock shift as he crossed his arms and made a displeased sound.

"They're probably on their way back to China already, yeah?" John asked. An unsolved case meant days of Sherlock laying out on the sofa in his jim jams, but if he was lucky – and he thought he was – it might also mean a chance with Sarah tonight.

"Is this what you boys do? Solve puzzles?" Sarah asked.

Sherlock sighed.

"Consulting detective. I help the police whenever they're out of their league, which is always. John is my…"

"Friend. Colleague. Friend and colleague," John quickly said. No need to give the wrong impression, he thought. That's how Sherlock felt about him. He'd made that perfectly clear.

Sherlock had jumped out of the cab before it came to a complete stop, leaving John to fish through his wallet for the fare, again. Sarah waited patiently until he joined her, his hand finding the small of her back to guide her through the open door and up 17 steps into the flat.

Sherlock had thrown his jacket onto the sofa and was glaring at the pictures above the fireplace.

"Is it just me, or is anyone else hungry?" Sarah asked.

John knew a search of the kitchen would be pointless. Maybe even dangerous.

"I'll just run to Tesco. Do you like white or red wine?"

"Either is fine," Sarah replied. She gave him a peck on the cheek as he left.

"Hurry back, John," she whispered, her voice full of promise.

John made the short walk to Tesco in record time. The Chip and PIN even took his card and he was smiling as he stepped back out onto the street. He bought a more expensive bottle of red wine than he normally drank. Anything at that price better taste amazing.

"We aim to please," he muttered to himself and grinned at the innuendo. He could almost hear Sherlock's voice in his head – _idiot_.

He could see the door to the flat was open as soon as he rounded the corner. There was no reason to think anything was really wrong and yet his instinct was to drop the bag and grab his gun. He crouched in the shadows of a stairwell and waited. If he hadn't left his Browning upstairs in his drawer he would already be creeping towards the open door. He waited five minutes and then five more. Finally he walked across the street and into the flat.

"Sherlock?" he called up the stairs.

The flat was a wreck. There were papers scattered from the kitchen to the living room. Sherlock's glassware was shattered and the contents of the cupboards were spilling out onto the counter and floor. Sherlock's bedroom was the worst. His mattress was off its frame and slit up the middle. Clothes, books, and papers littered the ground.

"Sarah?"

John ran up to his bedroom and pulled open his night stand. He crammed his gun into the back of his trousers and ran back downstairs.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called.

"Oh dear. What's he done now?" Mrs. Hundson said from the doorway. She crossed her arms then rubbed them with her hands, looking around with worry. John walked over to their bookcase where books were jammed so tightly together they were difficult to remove. His fingers drummed on the only empty space on the middle shelf.

"Did you hear anything? Anything at all?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

"I had the telly on. Should I phone the police?"

John stepped over the mess of papers to look at the photos hung above their fireplace and Mrs. Hudson followed. Wherever Sherlock was, this was the reason.

"What does it mean?" Mrs. Hudson asked, pointing to the golden symbols painted onto the windows.

"Yeah, those are numbers," John pointed to the photographs. "It's a cipher."

Mrs. Hudson glanced up at the largest photo.

"What's written there?"

John felt his jaw drop.

"Soo Lin started translating the code. It says nine mil. Nine million quid!" John grabbed her gently and kissed her forehead.

"Mrs. Hudson, do you have any books in your flat? Mind if I take a look?"

"Whatever for?"

"Sherlock thought these numbers were pages in a book. If I can crack the cipher I can find Sherlock."

Mrs. Hudson had only a small bookcase of books, most of them covered in a fine layer of dust. _You know my methods, apply them,_ Sherlock's voice taunted in his head.

Right, which book looked like it was used the most?

A book without dust. One that had been obviously thumbed through.

None of the newer ones then.

A book that everyone had a copy of.

A book that was missing from their flat upstairs.

John ran his fingers over the spines, stopping at Mrs. Hudson's battered copy of London A-Z.

He grabbed a pen off Mrs. Hudson's table and wrote out his translation in bold capital letters. NINE MILL FOR JADE PIN DRAGON DEN BLACK TRAMWAY.

"Oh, Christ," John said, and dashed out the door.

"Taxi!"

And miracle of miracles - as soon as he threw out his arm a cab stopped for him. They sped off and it seemed the driver knew these streets just as well as Sherlock. John left him a wad of bills and ran for the tram tunnel. As he approached he could make out the voices of Sherlock and a woman.

He checked his left hand. Steady as always. Into battle then.

"I am losing my patience, Mr. Holmes. Where is the treasure?" the woman said.

"Well, I don't have it," Sherlock replied. John crept down the dark corridor until he could make out a tall figure bound tightly to a chair. Where was Sarah? John peered around the bend.

"Too bad for your pretty lady friend. I need a volunteer from the audience! Yes, you'll do very nicely," she said, and John watched as Sarah struggled against her binds, tears streaming down her face. One of the men carefully placed an arrow into the crossbow aimed at Sarah. Sherlock gave a big sigh.

"Is this really necessary?" he asked, sounding bored. John shoved hard at the rising anger he felt. Getting angry with Sherlock wouldn't save Sarah.

"Just tell us what we need to know, Mr. Holmes. We have a buyer but nothing to sell. Too bad for pretty companion."

"She's not my companion," Sherlock said.

"Dammit Sherlock!" John muttered to himself. Now was not the time for Sherlock to reveal his hand.

"So you don't care if she dies then?" she asked. "Consider this, pretty lady alone with you in your flat. I see the two of you together at our show. Your friend picked up tickets in your name."

As the woman talked her attention focused away from Sarah and so did that of her men. After all, a gagged and bound woman was no threat to their safety. He stayed mostly in the dark, creeping forward and towards her in the shadows. And then Sherlock found a way to bungle it all by shouting his name. Everyone turned his way and it was a mad dash forward, pistol held at the ready, sweeping wide to cover all his targets.

"Stay where you are!" he commanded, pleased at how confident he sounded.

"Her gun only has one bullet John!" Sherlock called and John tried not to sigh. One bullet was plenty enough to do damage to his deranged flatmate and that's where the gun was resting now, right at his temple.

He moved over towards Sarah and when no one tried to stop him he untied her and sent her running back through the tunnels and into the safety of the busy night. Her wide eyes were moons in the relative darkness.

Sherlock was surrounded by her henchmen and was going to take a bit of negotiating to get free. John took the easiest way out.

"Tell them where it is Sherlock," John said. They were outnumbered even if they weren't outgunned.

"I don't know where it is!" Sherlock insisted.

"Well, think!" John snapped as the henchmen started to gain their courage, eyes doing the talking as they considered their options.

"The price of your life, Mr. Holmes, is information," the opera singer said quietly.

"What, you just think I have it stored up somewhere in my Mind Palace?" Sherlock asked John, ignoring her completely.

"Yes. I don't know. Maybe?" John said desperately.

Sherlock rolled his eyes then shut them. John could feel a small drop of sweat move between his shoulder blades. The madam just stood and stared at Sherlock, not at all perturbed by his weapon, awaiting the answer that would allow them both to hopefully walk away free.

"The secretary! Your smuggler's P.A. She had it in her hair. He must have given it to her as a gift, completely unaware of the value," Sherlock announced.

"You have been most informative," the woman purred. She nodded to one of her men and Sherlock was released. John grabbed him by his lapels and pulled him backwards, away from the group, his gun held at the ready. They walked that way all the way to the tunnel entrance, but the men made no move to follow.

"You do realize we've put a perfectly innocent woman in harms way by divulging this information," Sherlock said.

"I'm sure we can think of a way to keep her safe. Like returning the pin," John answered.

Sherlock pulled out his phone, his fingers moving across the keyboard, and he hummed in agreement.

"Or we can place the pin out of their reach. There," Sherlock beamed at his phone, obviously pleased with his own handiwork.

"What do you mean? Sherlock, what did you do?" he asked.

"Loaned it out to the National Antiques Museum. Should go nicely with their Shunga collections. Also one has to appreciate the irony of the pin resting in the very place where Soo Lin Yao was killed. I can't think of a better ending," Sherlock said. Then he tucked his cell phone into his pocket and walked quickly to where Sarah stood waiting for them both.


End file.
